Site Search Navigation

Site Navigation

Site Mobile Navigation

‘You’ve Done Everything You Can’

By Amy Klein June 17, 2014 12:26 pmJune 17, 2014 12:26 pm

Photo

Credit Photo Illustration by Ali Smith

We were sitting in the new French pastry shop in the souk waiting for The Call.

Solomon and I were waiting to hear from the Jerusalem hospital’s genetic lab, whether they would test our five embryos today and transfer them to me, or if the testing would have to be put off till next month.

Apparently, there was a tight schedule for embryo testing, and I wasn’t on their roster. I suppose they hadn’t expected me to produce so many embryos after my poor results in the past (only one “embie” had been frozen from two previous cycles).

As I picked at my husband’s éclair, I considered the alternatives: If they had to postpone the testing till next month, it would be a good opportunity to travel – we had even found a discount vacation package the next morning to Eilat, the beach resort town in the south of Israel. We could spend the next month touring, visiting friends and family without baby-making hanging over our heads. Yes, a month off, knowing we had “frosties” waiting for us would be just fine.

Solomon was sipping his coffee when the call came in. This was it.

“Miss Klein?” It was the embryologist. I looked at Solomon and gave him a thumbs-up. He smiled.

“I’m afraid it didn’t work,” the embryologist said.

“So you can’t test the embryos this month?” I said.

“No, no. We did test them,” she said. “None of the embryos were viable.”

“What?” I understood the words, but I didn’t understand them in this context. This was not an option: We were either going to freeze all the embryos or test and transfer them. It was not possible that we would test and have nothing to freeze. It couldn’t be. We were supposed to find healthy embryos to implant so I wouldn’t have another miscarriage, so I could have a healthy baby.

“I don’t underst — what is happ —” I stuttered. “What is …?”

Solomon grabbed my phone. “Yes, no, yes, no. Now? O.K.,” he said perfunctorily, his eyes downcast, looking away from me. I stared at him as hard as I could, trying to hold onto something in this crazy world. Was there no point to all my suffering, these crazy meds, this international move? There was no point, and there was no end.

My husband must have paid the bill, led me to a cab and gotten us to the hospital to meet with the doctor, but I didn’t notice any of it. I stayed silent, but the noise in my head was deafening.

The doctor had tissues at the ready, but my face was dry. She handed us the embryology report. I stared blankly at the results: Each embryo had a different chromosomal problem. What did it matter? They were all bad. My eggs were all bad. I was, in fact, too old. Everyone else was right. I’d been a fool to believe otherwise.

“Why don’t you go and get her file,” she said to Solomon. “And close the door on your way out.”

When he was gone she leaned forward over her desk and looked straight at me.

“Look, I wanted to tell you this privately,” she said. “Amy, you must know that you’ve done everything humanly possible. More than everything. You’ve done everything you can to try and have a baby with your own eggs. Now you can move on, knowing that. Knowing that you did your best.”

I thought of what the rabbi, our benefactor, had told me earlier in the week. “Promise me you won’t give up, Amy. Even if it doesn’t work this time: Promise me you’ll keep trying,” he had begged, and I had said O.K. But now, looking at my doctor’s worried face, I was no longer sure.

Solomon re-entered the room holding my thick file, dozens of papers spilling out of the folder. He looked at me, at her, and knew something must have transpired without him.

“So, what do you think?” he said.

“I thought we could do better,” she said. And she had. When she’d first seen my treatment file from my mini-IVF clinic in New York, she’d had that gleam in her eye, one of determination that her treatment, full-force IVF, would work. Now that glimmer was gone. “I’m sorry,” she said, then added: “I’m not saying you have zero chance of getting pregnant, but it’s close to zero. Less than 1 percent. If you want to continue, of course, I will, but …”

Solomon looked at me. “Do you want to continue?” We had agreed to three rounds of IVF in Israel, but my husband wouldn’t hold me to it if I wanted to do one more.

Did I? In the past, I’d never understood people who said they were done, who gave up on their dream of having their own genetic children. But as I thought of the future, I could not picture myself taking any more shots. I could not imagine pumping myself up with more hormones. I couldn’t see how we would freeze more embryos for testing, only to find they were all chromosomally compromised.

I’d tried natural cycles, mini-IVF, full IVF, long and short protocols, frozen and fresh embryo transfers, acupuncture, Reiki, hypnosis, guided imagery, the Jewish ritual bath, holistic cleanses, positive thinking and every supplement possible. This was it. I was done.

I took Solomon’s hand. “No. No more,” I said. For the first time in a while, I did not know what the future would hold.

Amy Klein wrote the Fertility Diary for Motherlode through February 2014 and is now updating readers periodically on her continuing journey. She blogs on fertility topics at Fertility Authority. Follow her on twitter @amydklein.

About

We're all living the family dynamic, as parents, as children, as siblings, uncles and aunts. At Motherlode, lead writer and editor KJ Dell’Antonia invites contributors and commenters to explore how our families affect our lives, and how the news affects our families—and all families. Join us to talk about education, child care, mealtime, sports, technology, the work-family balance and much more